


Defuse Him

by Writing-Classic-Rock (writingfanfic)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 18:17:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13393509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-Classic-Rock
Summary: For the prompt: 'John Lennon Imagine where the reader meets up with John at the studio and John is really mad with how something had gone that day and the reader tries to calm him down'Sure can!





	Defuse Him

“ _-and yer a bellend too, Paulie, so-_ ”

“Yeah, he’s been shouting for about half an hour,” says the man smoking at the entrance, and you put your head in your hands. “Funny enough, that’s about when Linda arrived…”

“Thanks,” you say, ashen-faced, and pace inside. Linda is actually there - just outside, trying to do her best to respect the ‘no WAGs’ rule, but you lock eyes with her and smile awkwardly. In another life, you two would probably be friends, but with Paul and John like… this right now…

“He’s… a little upset,” she says, throatily, and you nod.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. You’re not bloody yelling at Paul,” she says, and you nod. “Go on. Go in and defuse him. We’ll evacuate the building.” You sigh, and traipse past her, pushing through the doors.

John looked around at you, and you put your hands up.

“Bad time?”

“(Y/N).” Paul sounds almost relieved, and you avoid looking at him. Not only are you a little ashamed at John’s behaviour, but you know that making direct eye contact with The Enemy will earn you a night of cold behaviour. You shouldn’t put up with it, but that’s an argument to have outside.

“Paul. John, come on. Let’s go home.” You wonder briefly where that mop-topped teddy boy hidden inside a suit went - and what this is, this man with long hair and round glasses who is wearing a fur coat and glaring at you a little. “Johnny.”

“Whatever.” He storms past the others, and you look around them all. You can’t say ‘sorry’. You can’t. You hope Linda passes it on for you. You simply turn and follow, and John stalks ahead with predatory intent. You know you’re going to be the prey. As soon as you get in the car, he will snap at you, and you have a choice. Struggle, or be eaten.

Both feel so hard nowadays.

You slide into the driver’s seat, and he slams the passenger door, looking over at you.

“It was Paulie’s fault, you know,” he begins, and you nearly slam onto the horn with both hands, sitting in the parking lot. As it is, you simply hit the steering wheel. “…what?!”

“For god’s sake John. You promised me you’d work on this,” you say, snappily, and he stares at you. “You’re so bloody angry all the fucking time right now and…” You sigh, and lean forward, resting your head on the wheel.

“Well, I’ve got some bloody stress on me!” John snaps back, and you look up at him. “I married yeh because yer s’posed to be helpin’ me! Takin’ the stress off, yeh?” You look at him, eyes narrowed. “Do yeh know what it’s like to be me?”

“I know what it’s like to be fucking married to you,” you mutter. “And it’s not that easy either.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise yeh didn’t recognise me when we met,” he says harshly. “An’ right now, one of me best friend’s turned out to be a fuckin’  _wanker_ , like, another of me best friends-slash-me  _manager_  just d- _died_ …” You bite your lip, and he turns his head away. John never did like to be seen crying, which was unfortunate, because he cried a lot. “A-and I don’t need  _you_  turnin’ against me, neither…”

“John,” you whisper, and he reaches out to you, like a child to his mother - you pull him close. “John, I just don’t need you snapping at me. I’m trying to do nothing but keep the peace. Okay?”

“But I need yeh to back me up,” he whispers, and you stroke the fluffy jacket, hoping its not too thick for him to feel your gentle touches. You feel that way about the armour he’s built up around himself, too. “I need yeh on my side.”

“I know, Johnny, I know,” you murmur, and he clings to you, crying gently as the traffic goes past outside and you hear someone get into their car a few spots away and as planes go by overhead, and you wonder when the last time was that you two had quiet. “Let’s go home.”

“Y-yeah,” he murmurs. “I want to move. I want to move, after all this is done. Somewhere, far away.”

“We can do that.” You don’t ask  _when what is over?_  because you know. Everyone knows. And everyone is desperately trying not to say it.


End file.
